


The Sepulchre

by WhiteGloves



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft is M, Protective Sherlock, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being a Good Brother, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock is a hero
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-18 19:15:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13688052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteGloves/pseuds/WhiteGloves
Summary: What would you do if you were buried alive? Being one Mycroft Holmes was never easy. But maybe if you have a Sherlock there’s a chance of survival. (Holmes brothers) - complete





	1. Chapter 1

***The Sepulchre** *****

_**by: WhiteGloves** _

Absolute two parts is only I can spare^^''

A call for Mycroft after seeing plenty of pictures again XD

_**Thanks for reading :)** _

* * *

**PART1**

Mycroft Holmes never believed there was such a thing called a  _fine day,_  being unfortunately accountable to an impish younger brother _,_  but he planned to make an effort out of it nonetheless. He woke up earlier than usual feeling blithe for some reason which was uncommon when you are the possessor of the marked  _M_  of the Secret Service. But here he was, with his shoulders light, his chest untroubled and his mind—certainly brilliant and perfectly capable of charting the entire streets of Europe as he had done to Great Britain in one reading of the map—clear. But what brought such clarity to his already experienced senses was untraceable—although he was already suspecting the fine wine given to him by the French Ambassador nurtured carefully decades ago— but he had a mind to put it to use, especially  _today._

Putting on his best suit, Mycroft was already fixing his tie when the first hurdle to his  _fine day_  came in three rings of his phone. Suspecting some major catastrophe that could have befallen his country whilst he was asleep, Mycroft was unsurprised to see the embedded name of his younger brother on the screen. Checking his watch that read fifteen past six, the older Holmes picked up the phone as he arranged his collar.

"Isn't it too early for you to spoil the day?" he greeted his younger brother and he could just imagine his scowl.

_"And too early for you to be an arse."_

"Language, brother." Mycroft turned away from his mirror to wear his waist coat. "I should like proper manners be observe even when we are speaking on the mobile phone. I will have none of this modern communication excuses of bobbing headed emoticons. I am your older brother after all."

_"We never use emoticon, Mycroft, why are you so against it? Besides, those bobbing head has got 101 better expressions than you'll ever have in seconds."_

"I'm still opposed to it. Make a call, be polite."

_"Says the man who greets like a pruned cock."_

"Who do you think began the tedious call that ruined my morning? I have every right to be a cock and worse."

_"Fine—I want to have a list of all the prime suspect in the Avery murder case."_

"Didn't you have list from the Scotland Yard?" he was buttoning his waist coat when he saw himself frown in the mirror. Just like his brother to be all god like when it comes to crimes and stuff. Mycroft would not be against his profession at all if only Sherlock would do actual  _proper sleuthing_ and be a chief inspector but no—he decides to call himself  _the world's only consulting detective._  Such drama only worthy of a  _Holmes._

_"I said 'all' suspects, brother. That includes the Head of the Police in Avery, which you know you can't hide from me."_

"I never hid it, I've never even glanced at the report." Mycroft rounded towards his last coat and stood still, "Whatever your thoughts about it were, it just didn't strike me to be of any importance."

_"It's a murder case, Mycroft."_

"Yes, and dead as he be, the poor fellow can wait in his grave, can't he? He won't be going anywhere."

_"That's a blunt way of putting it—but I can't—"_

"Yes, yes you can't rest till you put justice where it is needed. Bless you, boy, the police were merely taking their time, doesn't mean they won't get there sooner. You are just impatient."

_"And you are obstructing justice now send me the files!"_

He hung up without another word, leaving Mycroft rolling his eyes and putting his phone on the table as he fixed his wrist collar. He knew a perfect day was impossible now with Sherlock already ruining its very first second, let alone a  _fine_  one what more when he remembered the three other major hurdles of the day. Soon, he had forgotten to care about Sherlock after sending him the files, there's only so much time to spare for him. Checking with his secretary but nonetheless remembering his schedule, he knew he was appointed to meet the mayor of one of the cities, the bank manager of the central bank and the Parliamentary Private Secretary to the Chancellor of the Exchequer. If he was still aiming to truly have the favor of the day, he could go through everything before tea time.

Tea time he did.

All three meetings proved flawlessly and with less effort. All he had to do was acquire entrance to all their private offices which was never a problem, sit in one of those chairs near the lampshade that evoked mystery and wait for them to come in exactly a minute for Mycroft always  _knows_. He had done these many times that the expression on each of their faces never amuses him any longer even in the shadows. It was impossible for him to be unnoticed for he was such a person to emit an aura when he meant to. Once they notice him, he would always begin with his usual drawling voice of command that required no nonsense from the other party.

_"I'm sure it's all surprising but do have a seat,"_  was Mycroft's common dialogue that would usually make them jump out of their wits,  _"Time is of the essence and I prefer to go through this as direct as possible. And no, no tea please."_

_"Who are you? Security—!"_

Mycroft would usually smile at that point. Even size up his target.

_"I'm afraid your security will have to answer to me seeing as I am the ultimate security of this country. I have sent you a letter, I believe, if you'd only be so kind to remember."_

At that, they would usually stare at him thunderstruck. And the pattern was complete.

This was how Mycroft does most of his appointments. Most of the time the pattern would be broken when targets jump to their side drawer to pick up their guns, which naturally would not be there. Mycroft was no novice to this.

Now for his three targets, the pattern was applied. For one, he only needed to remind the mayor that his indulgence of the gambling arena at the back of the PM was going to cause him his career in less than two weeks' time if he doesn't surrender all his assets to the authorities. When the mayor asked who would expose him to the PM, Mycroft smiled in the shadow of the Mayor's office and declared himself capable of ruining any career if he deemed it necessary. No words were needed after that and Mycroft knew his job was complete. He complimented the mayor for his quick grasp of things and even praised the expensive paintings available in his office. Those paintings costed fortune in Mycroft's knowledge that is  _beyond_ the mayor's means for a year.

"How does that work?" he asked dismissively, already aware of the answer. "It does not come from the tax of the citizens or I would have noticed it, no. It's coming from a different source but not even your prolific gambling could have given you that much…" he gave the man a penetrating gaze that got him squirming in his seat. Mycroft was on the opposite chair with his legs crossed, his face straight. And then saw the charity box sitting by the study table which made all the difference.

"Of course." Mycroft whispered with a sharp gleam in his eyes. "How else?" he stood up after that, taking his requisite umbrella with him. "I suppose you'll be seeing a lot of me, Mr. Mayor. And coming from me, that's never a good thing.  _Good day."_

He left the office feeling satisfied after seeing the Mayor's face paled and a bit more cynical that a man whose table was composed of the bible could be so averse to its teachings, but he was none the wiser when it comes to it.

The second one was much daring for a bank manager was always sure of himself. After applying his pattern, Mycroft was threatened with thick large books of Don Quixote's adventures which the British Government Head met with disapproval. For one thing, he never liked the character's irrationality.  _Sherlock_  was goddamn adamant of loving his ideals as a child, even going as far as believing himself a real pirate that made Mycroft discard all Cervantes's books in the house, but Mycroft suspected his younger brother only does it to annoy him. But that was another story entirely. Mycroft never begins with introducing himself, that was a privilege he leaves out of his work. He was, to humbly say it, unknown to those he does not wish to know his existence no matter how high the position of the person is. He let them know however that there is a power beyond the PM that could never be influenced; almost everybody felt it and sure enough by merely announcing his initial  _M,_ the bank manager was more than willing to listen and more than defensive that you'd expect a guilty person to be. The British Government head informed him bluntly that counterfeits of pound was considered treason and if he does not give him the name of the other high officials behind the project, he Mycroft, would—

"Send you to Middle East for a vacation leave in the middle of the siege and who knows—you might become famous for joining the rebel army there. I'll see to it that you get a proper video of your declaration of treason." He smiled.

The man fell silent, almost horrified.

"I'll give you three days, Sancho Panza.  _Good day._ " He stood up and went away. As he did so he was reminded of his younger brother's activities and made a mental note to call his security once he was inside his car. This he did to find out that Sherlock was safely tucked in the holes of his 221B. Maybe he, Mycroft, was going to have a smooth fine day after all.

The office of the Private Secretary to the Chancellor of the Exchequer was incredibly neat and with a touch of a female hand. Then again, the owner was a  _she._  Still, the lack of books on the shelves could either mean of higher intelligence that do not rely on records or lack of imagination. He was sure of the latter. Applying the method was easy, how he was received was entirely different.

"You know this is against my rights?" she said heatedly with her long red nails tapping on the table impatiently. She was a woman of mid-thirties, obviously one who had worked on her careers for such a long time that gave her pride and ability to question such interrogation. "I maybe an employee of the government but I still wield rights to privacy and justice which means I can bring this trespassing to court."

"I'm all you needed there." Mycroft whispered under his breath believing his luck had run out, so choosing his words correctly but in the same levelled tone and straight face, he went on, "But the fact that mattered is this: The Office of Chancellor of the Exchequer is responsible for the Treasury of this country and the account I had been gathering for the past two months since you became the Private Secretary has been alarmingly inefficient. If proper audit is to be done—"

"May I inquire who you are?" she asked skeptically, though Mycroft noted a change in her pitch. She was cautious now. Mycroft smiled at all the signs and leaned back on his chair.

"I'm afraid that is classified. Though, I don't think you've heard of me either. I go by the initial  _M._ "

Her eyes showed no recognition and Mycroft does not blame her. "Look, Ms—"

"Hummel. You know what you're doing is dangerous, right?" she asked, her eyes now gleaming meaningfully. "I hope for both our sake, you leave this office alone. You don't know the people working here.  _They're more dangerous than you think."_

Mycroft stared at her, unimpressed. "I would believe those threats if they can deliver. However, it is not your concern how dangerous  _they_  are, but how  _I can be."_ He narrowed his eyes at her and made his conclusion, "Millions have been noted missing from our account, the Head of Chancellor of the Exchequer had been cleared of all charges yesterday, I know it, I was there when he was trialed in the Cabinet. Ah—I see you recognize now from which branch I come from? Which is to say the only other connection I have against this fraud is you. All you have to do is give me names before things escalate out of your hands and you get even more involved than you already are, Ms. Hummel. I'm sure it will help your case a lot, maybe even lessen your charges if you come work for us."

Unwittingly, she drew a handgun from her red handbag and pointed it at the British Government Head who did not flinch as he stared at the muzzle. Sometimes things turn out this way too, but still not enough to erase Mycroft's unflustered expression. Types and kinds of guns was not new to him especially with his line of work. This one was a S&W body guard .38 Special, good for self defense as it was small and light. Alicia Smallwood used to carry one until Mycroft suggested there are many ways to personalized their means of protection, like his umbrella for instance. These days, Lady Smallwood can be seen carrying a small foldable umbrella and putting it to good use. Mycroft was already in possession of his own umbrella so what could go wrong?

"So," she began, her tone that of a poison ivy, "you  _are_  from the Secret Service?"

Mycroft smiled and checked his pocket watch. "Becoming aware of such intelligence, I'll give you credit for that. However, it would also imply that you have people in the higher positions informing you of such existence so you can no longer feign ignorance to your crime. And theirs. But your own freedom is in your hands." He looked her in the eye, calculating and meaningful. "I do not wish to sound rude but I still have a schedule and your gun simply can't stop me. If we can be about our business, will you give me the names or not? Which ever it would be, I assure you we have means to extract it from you."

The answer was apparent when she pulled the lock of the gun and fired— the same time Mycroft had already pushed his umbrella open—the bullet bouncing off the umbrella's bulletproof canopy—and she did fire many times until she had exhaust all her bullets before Mycroft called his backup and his men came flooding the scene.

"Mr. Holmes?" one of his men rounded on him as he closed his umbrella with ease while Ms. Hummel gave him the most appalled look that turned to grudge before she was pulled out of the room. Mycroft graced her with an eyebrow, his brother's words about how hopeless he was with the opposite sex sounding true. Well, if they always pull a gun on him, he was sure to respond with the same feeling. He turned to his man.

"Yes?"

"Your car is waiting."

"Thank you."

His errand took about half his day but he was glad to report in the Diogenes Club before tea time and it was the time of the day he most looked forward to. And still it was there, that feeling of blithe. He meant to call the French Ambassador for this unforeseen effect when he found his phone ringing as he sat by the heart of the Silence Chamber only to find the name of his brother flashing before his eyes again. Mycroft sighed.

And here he was thinking he was having such a  _fine day_ after the ruckus in the morning _._  Knowing it was about to end, and also aware that phone calls with Sherlock normally end with raised tones, the older Holmes stood up from his comfortable chair and headed to his office.

"Sherlock?"

_"Mycroft, I need a favor."_  His brother's coarse tone was always enough to send his fine day or any day spiraling down. Still, it was enough to hear his voice from time to time. Then he remembered how frequent Sherlock would call him during his most dull days. Nothing like rejuvenating his energy than to annoy his older brother as younger brothers are expected to do. Because Sherlock never does call when it was otherwise.

"Sherlock, since when did I become your personal secretary?"

_"Don't be a boor now, brother, a man's life depends on it."_

"Weren't you just working with the Avery case?"

_"The files you sent me was more than enough for Lestrade. It was downright boring after that."_

"I'm glad for your fulfillment. Perfect example of striving hard for what you believe in."

_"Shut up."_

"I would if you'd stop calling me every time. So, what is it about now?"

_"I need a pass to the White's."_

Mycroft made a face and raised an eyebrow up to heaven. The Whites is a gentleman's club in London and is the most exclusive of its kind— _apart from the Diogenes._  It held the most prominent members of the society—from the royal family, to the last politician and seconded members who needed wits, important contacts and with a cent to spare. What else would you do in a place full of gambling sessions and drunks throwing money about? There was no question how the  _Diogenes_  was different from it on an atomic level. Sherlock asking for a pass was not what it was meant for his brother, above everything else, hates  _conformity._ It was obvious what it was about.

"What made you think I can give you pass there?" he asked, playing for time knowing Sherlock was on one of his wild goose chase again. A client must've approached him a little while ago that aroused such notion right after the Avery excitement. But the royal gentlemen club indeed! There was a reason why it was called  _exclusive._

_"Because it's you!_   _I told you stop boring me with questions. A client came and claimed his brother, a servant from the club, has gone missing for three days now and the last place he was seen was in the Whites. He was 25, 6 feet tall and with a mole on the right side of his eyes. He was also a card dealer who had begun working there not a week ago. I plan to excavate his house to find more but there are some peculiar aspects in this case, brother, which includes the amount of white sugar they deliver in the Whites—"_

"Sugar?" Mycroft scoffed, "What amount of sugar?"

_"Five sacks each week."_

Mycroft pressed his eyes closed and gave a deep sigh. For a gentleman's club to empty the sugar container that quick would raise eyebrows. The Whites maybe notorious for its gambling, but never for sweet tooth. Even the Diogenes was not inclined to such use of sugar in their strong coffee. Which could only lead to one thing.

"Are you certain?"

_"Positive."_

"I'll looked over it myself and if you need any more information you might as well drop by the office and we can talk about this."

_"Yeah, sure, I'll wait for you here."_

"You're the one asking the favor, you come here."

_"And you're the one who'll be wanting this case all hush-hush so you come here."_

"I'm not in the mood to entertain your landlady's craving for my blood, Sherlock."

_"What a pity, she's here beside me listening as I go. Might as well let her go down the café house and spread the good word? Just come here, Mycroft!"_

"Sherlock—" Mycroft gritted his teeth but his brother had already hung up the phone. Shaking his head at the ungracious dismissal, the British Government Head immediately grabbed his over coat and umbrella, all the while in contact with his men who had been stationed to keep an eye to the Whites at St. James street. He confirmed the number of delivery trucks arriving every Tuesday of the week at exactly 2 pm. It has been happening for two months and nobody from his planted spies ever reported back such pattern! To be fair, they checked the contents and found  _sugar_  indeed. But there are many ways of concealment and with this in mind, Mycroft called for his private sedan. The magnitude that such a club which has been around for 250 years and with exclusive members such as the Royal family was the icing on the cake for the media! He loathed to think of all the trouble it would cause his government and whoever was responsible will be heavily punished! This poor man who had disappeared must've found out the drug transaction and would most likely have been killed by now.

To have the White's name drag in a mess was why, as Mycroft reminded himself, he was there in his position in the first place. There surely will be some hush-hushing about. And people to disappear on the surface of the planet.

Mycroft slid inside his sedan and dialed the Hector Leeway's number, the secretary of the White club. Above all the other candidates for the scheme, his name became preeminent in Mycroft's mind. The man who was always at the club on Tuesdays and Thursdays dutifully and with the position to oversee those  _deliveries_  to make sure they come unnoticed. Apart from that, Leeway has had a record.

_"Hello? Mr. Holmes?"_

"I'll be in the area in a few moments and I believe you have something to confess to me."

_"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes?"_

"Let's not dillydally,  _I know what you're doing._  And if you are as smart as I think you are then you should also know  _who I really am._  There is no need for you to try and escape, my men is already surrounding the place. You may also recall a good friend of mine, Sir Harry? He's there and has made sure you are contained. I shall come for you in a moment.  _Good day."_

He won't be able to ungraciously hang up even if he tried, as Sherlock had done for it was not like him to be so  _impolite_  even to known suspects. Which reminded him to tell Sherlock he had already solved the case. He contacted him just as his car drove on the streets late that afternoon. Was he still feeling the  _fine day?_ With him now calling his brother—the day was about to turn into a disaster for sure.  _Unless he does something about it, and he did._

"Hello, brother? I don't think I shall go there after all. Cancel our meeting and be a good lad." It was the best lines of the day, so maybe it wasn't hopeless just yet.

_"What happened?"_

"I found the culprit the moment you hung up your phone, one Hector Leeway, the club's secretary in charge of the servant and other matters in the club. I would have told you of course, but as ever you were impatient. Sorry, but the case is on me."

He heard nothing from the other side, but just know exactly what Sherlock was thinking and annoyed about.

_"And the body?"_

"The truck comes from Kensington which means dumping a body on the Thames is every bit possible. Check on with Inspector Lestrade or Molly Hooper—I'm surprised you have not?"

_"Seeing as I was waiting to bully my brother for a case that was right under his nose—"_

" _Was_  under my nose—"

_"Have you initiated a search for the body?"_

"I thought I could leave that to you."

_"I'm a consulting detective, you know."_

"And I'm a simple man with a minor position in the British Government—not an errand runner, brothermine. So, no house calls for today, I hope I did not disappoint you."

_"Funny, Mrs. Hudson was all ready to meet you. Aren't you?"_

There was a giggle on the other end, making Mycroft close his eyes again just  _imagining_  and had to shake the thought off. How his brother could live such a life was still a mystery to him, but as long as he knows where Sherlock is then that was all that mattered. If only his brother would find a decent job than his frolic with the criminal kind in a dressing gown. The idea was too much so if he asked himself again if he was having a fine day—with three calls from Sherlock in a day and a near house call?

_"You can still come around and explain that club's activities to me."_  Sherlock must definitely be bored to come invite him? Mycroft made a mental note to hire a search party for John Watson instead.

"On a good time, maybe. Or not. Sorry, I'm busy. Usually I would have left trifle cases like this in your hands but seeing as the Royal Family was nearly involved—in any case it has been solved. Run along now and go be a pirate somewhere—"

The black car smoothly drove on to Westminster street and would have been minutes away from St. James when the car stopped violently, throwing Mycroft about as he heard tires screech, his phone falling on his car floor with such a force that it broke into two. Looking up alert, Mycroft saw two black cars had stopped to block their way and then four men came out heavily armed. Mycroft looked around the streets and saw no eye witnesses— which was good considering they might get involved with stray bullets and all that—but to have no one around in the middle of the day?

_Too obvious._

"Ambush, sir." Said his driver who, for the life of him, was accustomed to such episodes, was about to reverse the car when he halted the idea, seeing something from behind them. Mycroft turned too with his umbrella already at hand when the car door on his side opened and a gun was pointed on his head—

Things happened quickly as three gunshots was heard and his driver was killed. Mycroft was dragged away from his car, leaving all possessions behind. He was shoved inside another car—then felt something heavy thump at the back of his head and then there was nothing.

* * *

_When Mycroft came to everything was dark—but it wasn't the darkness that alarmed his inner senses the most—it was the feeling of containment that flooded him—for twist and turn he did, he felt a solid material just above his face—and to his left, to his right, his back firmly planted on a wooden material—there was no space to move—his arms were immovable, his legs were rattling under him._

_But there was nothing there except darkness and his short breathes. Where was he?_

_Then in his foggy mind's vision, Mycroft remembered half seeing dirt, half seeing men moving about. Then shovels were passed around… and then a wooden box the length of a man's body. Then gravestones._

_This was enough to alarm him beyond anything as he realized with dread what might have become of him._

_Buried alive._

_"Help…"_ his voice was hoarse, his chest heaving. He tried to raise his numb hand and clawed on the solid above him and knew how helpless as his air was limited, but he needed to let it out all the same—  _"Help!"_

* * *

**-ToBeContinued-**

* * *

**_A/N:_ ** _Not light, less Mycroft makes it so but one word? Horrible -.-_

_Just one of those dosage I needed to last a year!_

_Part B coming to an end!_

**Thanks for reading! ^_^**

**~W.G~**


	2. Chapter 2

***The Sepulchre** *****

_**by: WhiteGloves** _

_What absolute nonsense? xD kidding!_

_Loving the Holmes brothers still and dang~ awesome relationship!_

_**Thanks for reading :)** _

* * *

**PART2**

_"—you're the one who'll be wanting this case all hush-hush so you come here!... Just come here, Mycroft!"_

John Watson entered the cozy living room of 221B to hear this last snippet of conversation thrown about on the mobile by his lone flatmate who was on his blue dressing gown looking thoroughly nonchalant and not a care whether he looked presentable to any sudden client who comes in or not; his long legs above the armchair, swaying impatiently like a child's, waiting to jump out of the house with his unkempt dark curls sticking on all sides, as stubborn as its owner. Mrs. Hudson was beside his chair, picking up the tray of tea on the nearest table with a very knowing look on her face when Sherlock dropped his phone on his chest and laid his head backwards looking, the usual,  _bored._

"All older brothers are like that dear, always feeling in charge." she was saying as John looked at them and they ignore him as if he never left the room at all so he sat on the opposite chair of his friend, listening, "But then he isn't like anyone else's older brother, is he?"

Sherlock chuckled at the thought and pulled his head up. "That's the  _understatement_  of the year. No one has a clue what it is like except me— having a brother like that whose got his own jet, his own security,  _his own government!_  Tragic, isn't he?"

"There's your understatement." John supplied with a smirk.

"Why can't he just be a normal older brother?" Mrs. Hudson wondered out loud, "I know two previous tenants, like yourself and John and they are the sweetest brothers I've seen under this roof, apart from you two of course—"

"We're not sweet." John muttered under his breath, knowing where she was heading at, with the usual talk of them being a 'couple'—she was always fond of this thought that made the doctor believed she believes whatever she wants to believe. Which was the case in 221B. She was such a fan too. Mrs. Hudson gave him an affectionate look and John knew exactly what was on her mind.

"It's alright, John, I'm saying you're much more like brothers, you two than poor Mycroft Holmes. He sometimes makes my skin crawl."

"That would only make him happier." Sherlock dropped his head on the armchair again, his eyes losing interest in the conversation. "God, why are we talking about  _him?_  Stop it or I'll jump out of the window, John go get the suit case, we'll go down to White Chapel, maybe the lascar they said that came back to life then died again will be a better tragedy to discuss."

Mrs. Hudson pranced out of the room, calling back, "I'm sorry dear, it's just that your brother is really a worst case of peculiar."

"Tell me about it." Sherlock finally turned to the doctor who had to excuse himself early that morning because of a medical emergency. "How's the man with the rock formed earwax?"

John shrugged his shoulders. "Alive to tell the tale. I had to use a dental drill to soften the spot. It had accumulated for years, he told me. He thought it was because—and I quote— _the fairies got him_ and too frightened to confirm to anyone. By the time he got to me he was about to lose the right one." He shook his head at the experience, then glanced up at his best friend. "Anyways, Mycroft being a total pain in the arse again? What's all this hush-hush about?"

 _"Mycroft."_  Sherlock explained in a word, then looked up sharply at John again, "Let's talk about the earwax. I prefer the earwax."

"Hating your brother just because he's better than you—"

"Says who?" Sherlock said defensively, "How is he ever better always sitting on his Diogenes couch or Cabinet couch or Parliament couch? That lazy go lucky?"

John chuckled seeing Sherlock get comfy on his own couch. "Come on, stop wagging off. What's happened?"

In shorter detail, Sherlock explained about the ending of the Avery case with Mycroft's hand in it, though John was sure Sherlock had already mentioned only  _one_  person could solve the case now apart from him because the evidences were nowhere else. Of course, he realized Sherlock must've meant his own brother and once Mycroft was involved typical cases get solve in a blink of an eye—like the Avery murder case. Then Sherlock went on about how a thin woman came to see him that morning too, consulting about her lost brother working in the Whites, a gentlemen's club filled with all the most social elites capable of spending hundreds of pounds in a single night. If it weren't for the fact that the club was also  _under his brother's protection,_  Sherlock would have waltz in there right that moment and interrogated everyone— but he didn't and instead  _consulted_  his brother instead. The fact that he didn't was saying something about how Sherlock still views his brother no matter how antagonistic he may be of him. Here he was, bored to his ass, a client came and all he did was transfer it to his brother knowing full well it will be handled accordingly—no wonder Sherlock was annoyed—so annoyed  _he even invited his brother to Baker Street to taste the company of Mrs. Hudson._

"But if they're using powder in the Whites, what would Mycroft do?"

"Don't worry about him, worry about the people who'll all be found guilty." Sherlock responded in such ennui, John felt him slip into a drowsiness when he closed his eyes, "Mycroft would never cover up any criminal kind be it his kin." He raised his hand as an example, "He'll put them all in bars and still allow no scandal to spread around, that's his job. Keeping a minimum bad news in a day to keep the British folks and the Queen happy."

"Such quaint characteristic," John mumbled when he saw the mobile phone on his best friend's chest lit up and a ring filled the house. He watched the detective take it slowly, sigh quietly before putting the phone in his ear. By then John knew— _the case was already solved._ He listened to the conversation closely and sure enough it was Sherlock's older brother going by the tone of the detective's voice— not to mention when Sherlock began inquiring about the body and the usual banter began.

"Seeing as I was waiting to bully my brother for a case that was right under his nose—"

Mrs. Hudson came back in the room carrying a number of letters in one hand, seeing Sherlock busy, she headed for John, "All your fanmails. And I thought everyone's already raving about electrical gadgets and all that?"

John took the bundle and inspected the return addresses, "They're all from his senior fans I think."

"Funny, Mrs. Hudson was all ready to meet you. Aren't you?" Sherlock raised his eyes to the landlady who giggled and waved herself out of the room. John blinked down at the letters and had begun sorting them when a quick movement from his friend alerted him and made him look up.

Sherlock was on his feet with a deep frown on his face, his mobile still pressed on his ears calling—

"Mycroft? Mycroft?" he pulled the phone to his eye level and threw a look at the doctor.

"What?" John blinked up at him and saw Sherlock drop himself on his favorite chair again.

"Must've pulled the breaks too late." The detective leaned his head back and gave an audible sigh. "Quite loud too, I heard tires break."

"Mycroft okay?"

"Definitely had a bruise given how he yowled so loud."

"Why don't you call him again?"

"He'll call when he wants to. Just now… let me….  _Think."_ Sherlock fell silent after that and never said another word. John watched his friend for a moment, and then dropped the subject altogether as he began sorting the letters again.

Somebody called them 10 minutes later and it was not Sherlock's brother with a bruise. It was Lestrade and his message was enough to make the lethargic consulting detective fly to his bed room to change his clothes and appear three minutes later in his suit, dark coat and blue scarf, and looking very somber. When John asked what had happened as they climbed out of 221B, he knew Lestrade's news didn't bode well.

"Mycroft." Sherlock said quietly as he silently ambled into the street that dusk, " _Ambushed."_

John's eyes rounded. "Is he—?"

"We'll find soon enough." Sherlock hailed a cab and John had never seen him look so grave. He clambered after the man and heard Sherlock give the address at St. James' street. He wanted to ask more but Sherlock had limited words to spare as he sat silently in the cab, his eyes seemingly lost in the distance.

John couldn't blame him. Mycroft was his older brother and he expected no lesser than this reaction no matter how ridiculous the two treat each other. Not so long ago, John would be amused by the thought that the Holmes brothers would be laughing at each other's graves or distresses but looking carefully now, it didn't seem to be the case. Unless Sherlock was thinking so carefully why his brother was not  _able_  to save himself from such disaster because let it be known that Sherlock  _does_  look up to Mycroft, no doubt about it that a simple mistake from his senior seemed almost  _intolerable._ Mycroft had built his pedestal well in Sherlock's mind as the superior brother so an ambush? What the devil was Mycroft doing being careless like that?

Still, Sherlock remained silent, and John left alone to deal with himself. Heck that.

"What's happened?" the doctor asked, finally done with Sherlock's brooding. He wasn't the only one concerned after all—if something happens to Mycroft  _then who'll look after them both?_  It was safe to say that Mycroft was  _their guardian._  John felt that but never said it out loud less Sherlock erupts.  _Because he knows it too._

"Didn't you hear what I just said a while ago—it's an ambush. Do keep up." He was cold and distance—but John was so use to Sherlock that dismissing his mood was easy enough. His irritability showed just how much delicate the situation was. John went on—

"So he was abducted—otherwise there'd be a body."

"There was a body."

"Whose?"

"His chauffer." Sherlock looked ahead of them, his eyes sharp. "Left dead on his seat with the backseat empty. They found his phone. That was when we were talking…" he paused, his lips pursing.

"It wasn't your fault." John was quick to assure the detective, knowing Sherlock would see it that way—

"Of course it's not." The man suddenly countered unkindly, "Mycroft's the one with all the backup security measures, how can it be my fault? He who's the most indispensable man in the British Government? No… it's how the get away vehicle disappeared. According to Lestrade they have a full shot of three black cars leaving the scene all caught in camera. Then they were all just gone. If my brother was to be taken a hostage if he's lucky, they'd be having him for a ransom. But if we are dealing with spies whose purpose is to extract information against the British Government… I think we both know how he'll end up."

 _Dead._  John gulped at the thought and fell silent too because Mycroft, a cock that he is, was the embodiment of  _loyalty_ both to his country and his only brother—such fixation, in John's opinion—was bound the get the man killed. He was afraid to say so but Sherlock seemed to understand. Silence fell after that.

When they met Lestrade at the scene, John couldn't help gritting his teeth at the state of Mycroft's car. The doors were all open, the windshields shattered on the ground and a pool of blood by the driver's seat. The body was long gone, seeing as forensics were already around with an ambulance with yellow tapes surrounding the area. The clock stroke half past six with the sun's dim light already disappearing, their shadows tall on the ground.

Lestrade met them halfway to the car, Sherlock's eyes taking in everything there is to observe, his eyes unblinking.

"You sure there's no call for ransom yet?" John began with a heavy sigh, knowing well enough he'd see a footage of the accident soon. Sherlock turned his eyes on Lestrade but would divert back to the wrecked car.

"No, nothing I've heard of. The Secret Service is on the move; they were here minutes before my team did, I heard they are already on maximum alert but they just couldn't find him." Lestrade's eyes were on the consulting detective, his hands holding a transparent bag for evidence and in it contained a broken mobile phone. When he got Sherlock's attention to it, he went on, "They wanted to take this back to their lab, to see if they can find who his last caller was but I don't suppose—?"

"Yes, it's me. But I won't come in for questioning, Lestrade, about what we were discussing. It's classified between us brothers."

Lestrade smiled. "Talking about world domination?"

"Excellent line. Wait till Mycroft hears you go." That wiped the smile off the inspector's face as Sherlock took the plastic bag with a frown finally gracing his blank features, "Where's his umbrella?" he raised his eyes to the Detective Inspector, "With the Secret Service?"

Lestrade nodded and raised his hand to call one of his men. "Yeah, that one they cannot leave behind. They've already extracted all the other evidences except the phone since they know you're coming. Also, all the camera footages are already in their database, here." He took the tablet one of his men was carrying and showed it to the two.

Minutes later, Sherlock was running. John didn't understand but he was running too. The moment they saw all the videos and where all the cars disappeared to, the consulting detective half dragged, half pushed Lestrade to his automobile and instructed him to drive to Buddha Bar London  _Knightsbridge—_ the place where the three cars all took three separate routes to left Knightsbridge, Brompton Road center and Sloan Street —and disappeared.

What did Sherlock see in those videos?

* * *

Mycroft forced himself to be calm after an erratic reaction to his predicament.  _Buried alive—who could blame him?_

Still, it was one of those fits he didn't see coming for a man such as him. For a moment there he felt dread—panic even as he felt his self-preservation kick in. But then—don't all people die in the end? It was just a matter of time of who goes first—in this case  _he might go_ untimely for  _he's never heard of a person survive this macabre idea of disposing of people!_ May his soul not let his adversaries sleep in peace once he was done here and over with.

Then again, he was still breathing.

Calming himself and closing his eyes as it made no difference in the dark being open, he tried to steady his breathings and went all out on knowledge in his mind palace on how soon he was  _finished_. One thing was sure however,  _it wouldn't be long now._  He gave himself a maximum of ten minutes to an hour long depending on different aspects of his situation including how deep he was in the soil, how tall he was and the type of his coffin. If he was under six feet of soil then he was doomed to his faith. Why bother prolonging the inevitable?

Because his mind wouldn't rest that's why. Pessimistic as it was, his brain could never help being analytical, so analyze the situation he did, if it was the last thing it does before all the lights go out. Yet, fear still struck him, which was natural, but it amused him to think that if he had been any shorter, his life span would have been longer. Alas, the Holmes family was never short on legs, and he was a fine man of six feet. Which sealed his death certificate for the taller you are, the shorter time you have to survive.

Mycroft chuckled—and was it possible—heard a tiny cry escape his lips? He couldn't be sure. His eyes were already close and he was only waiting for that moment but his brain was having the moment of his life being inside the most silent place on earth that surpass even the Diogenes Club!

 _To die peacefully… what a terrible thought for a brain like mine._ His body trembled for he had yet to embrace the fact that soon… and in a contained space… under the earth…  _forgotten._  Mycroft distracted himself and began to unconsciously calculate the number of minutes he has to survive—about how an average casket measuring 84 by 23 inches with volume of 886 liters containing a human body with an approximate volume of 66 liters could have 820 liters of air—of which one fifth is oxygen. Thereby if the person trapped consumes 0.5 liters of oxygen a minute, it was possible to survive at least for five hours before all the oxygen in the coffin is consumed. Thank Popular Science for that.

However—

_Who would like to have an agony that long? For five whole hours knowing that nobody would ever find you? Nobody would come looking even if they tried for he was already underneath._

Mycroft pressed both his palms on the solid wood above him and traced every inch of its width. His hands were cold and if he thought of it more, he'd be screaming his head out again. Good thing his intellect never got bested by his emotions, even at this point. So, he felt the wood and decide it was a made of elk wood, a highly traditional wooden made coffin. Safe to say whoever wanted to do him in never wanted him to get out since there were plenty of environmental coffin these days made of wool or other plants that could easily be broken out. It seems they were serious to get rid of him. Also, judging by the numbness of his back—he's been inside the coffin for seven minutes prior to waking up. He took up a lot of oxygen when he hyperventilated moments ago that took at least five minutes' worth of oxygen.

So his ten minutes was up? Was he to die any second now? Was he about to fall in one of those fits where he shouts yet again and plead for a longer life?

 _What for? Why would he want to escape in the first place?_  A question nagged at the back of his mind.  _He's had had a good life, great accomplishments he means to remain unknown, satisfied with his title and influence, and above all understands that death was part of the cycle even the superior he could not evade._ So why prolong the foreseeable when it has made its mark?

He was to die and feeling hollow about it wouldn't change a thing.  _Let it be._

 _But… Who wants to die a pathetic death?_  Came a petulant answer in the voice of none other than Mycroft's brother:  _Sherlock._

Mycroft opened his eyes in the darkness with a jolt as the thought stirred the most turbulent feeling in his tranquil fiber. In his mind's eye,  _Sherlock_ was staring at him coldly as he spoke those words, the blades in his eyes like arrows shooting across him accusingly. Mycroft felt his heart thump violently in his chest as he stared at the boy who for whatever reason of his own was angry at him again. Mad. Revolting.

 _Who gave you the right to die?_  Echoed the little brother that sent chills in Mycroft's spine who closed his eyes silently at this vision. For he who knows Sherlock's mental capacity knew for a fact that this was the real Sherlock speaking to him. Visions of his younger brother flashed before his eyes and before Mycroft knew it, he was clinging on to the elk wood again, his palms pressed hard on the material with his face profusely sweating as he remembered: Sherlock who was always in need of his support, Sherlock who was always in trouble.  _Sherlock calling out to him when he lost Redbeard in that tragic turn of fate— Sherlock who was always expecting him to be around to save the day when he couldn't—_

The only other existence in the world why Mycroft chose to live.  _Why he still lives._

 _Why do you always make it difficult for me, Sherlock?_  He asked with a small sigh, his senses becoming aware of his reality once more, his eyes opening in the darkness, feeling his containment, feeling every pore in his skin burn with his sweat, felt the thin layer of oxygen left—but for some reason, he knew he wanted to hold on. Knew he had to fight to the last breath or else those accusing eyes of his brothermine will hunt him even in  _death._

And dread filled him once again at the idea of perishing when someone was in need of him—when Sherlock still needs him even when he plays the hardy fool who couldn't give a damn about his brother—but Mycroft always knows as Sherlock does—they were a part of each other and the other's lost was like a betrayal— and unforgivable for they were given these brains to survive where other people cannot—

Mycroft laid still, his eyes stinging with sweat, his dry throat keeping his Adams apple at its place but with difficulty for then, he knew exactly what to do for brains like theirs— _it was never hopeless._

_0.5 liters of oxygen a minute was it?_

And Mycroft Holmes began his silent vigil towards a slow death.

* * *

John finally turned to his best friend. "Why are we in a hurry? Is Mycroft in danger?"

"From scale 1 out of 5?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed, " _Ten._  If we're not careful Mycroft could be fighting for his life in ten minute's time."

"What do you mean?"

"Have you ever been buried alive?"

John looked up thoughtfully. "No, but I've been set inside a burning bonfire so yeah, what's this tenth scale?"

"Mycroft could be ten meters under the ground."

 _"What?!"_  he stared at the consulting detective who nodded encouragingly. "And you're calm—why?" It didn't matter how long John had known Sherlock, what was absurd and incomprehensible will remain absurd and incomprehensible less it was explained—

"But the won't do it in broad daylight." Sherlock checked the sunset which rendered him surprise for nightfall was near. "Oh… that is bad. Lestrade—keep up the speed or my brother's dead meat!"

 _"What the hell's that mean? You mean he's dead?"_  John cried out sensing the urgency of the situation. Detective Inspector Lestrade was silently listening and driving in all speed with his siren— something about Sherlock's attitude convinced the Inspector to hurry.

"Not  _yet…"_

John hated it when Sherlock was being all mysterious— "How do you know all this?"

_"Dirt."_

"I'm sorry—what?"

"Their clothes." Sherlock said with a pointed look at the doctor as if it was the most elementary thing in the world, "Didn't you see their wrist collars? Their knees? The hem of their pants? Their shoes?  _All dirt! Mound dirt!_ And if you had looked carefully while they were dragging my brother, to the car, you'd notice a handful of dirt falling after them. Too bad your men got ahead of us and trampled on those precious evidence." He gave the inspector an infuriated look, "I could have easily known which soil—also—did you not see the black car? Scratches by the trunk made by thin layer of metal— I bet you anything if there was an audio feedback we'll hear clinking sounds of metal."

"What's that mean? Metal what—dirt?"

 _"Oh, John—shovels! They've been digging._ If men wearing dark suits like them whose cuff was brown and dirty to last line means anything to you at all—they've been digging and I sure think we all know for who."

"You meant they buried your brother after killing him?"

"I don't think he's dead or they would have shot him point blank on the spot, it's out of the question. They want him alive but if there's a ground digging involve, it's either they want to scare him or torment him but all the same, Mycroft could still be alive. Which leaves the question… _where…"_ Sherlock closed his eyes and halted anymore questions. Looking at him screw his eyes like that, John knew he was using the mind palace to sort out which cemetery or any burial ground would be more accessible to the culprits—what does Sherlock need to know which one?

And it also left John thinking of the most horrible idea of Mycroft getting buried in the ground. He hoped it wasn't so, he didn't even want to imagine it. Mycroft was no less than a friend to him, but he couldn't imagine Baker Street without his shadow lurking behind Sherlock! And no wonder Sherlock was giddy.  _Brothers will be brothers in the end._

Sherlock's eyes opened right then and there was a fiery glint in his eyes that even got John excited at the same time. To Lestrade, Sherlock ordered—

"Brompton Cemetery! That's where!  _Hurry!"_

"If we're a minute wrong…" Lestrade sped up and took the center road.

"No." Sherlock whispered with eyes meaningfully hard.  _"Can't afford it."_

* * *

He had been there, approximately fifteen minutes and the oxygen already at its limits.

Mycroft had a bad headache, his head feeling light with a tremor in his lips told him he was running out of time. The worst-case scenario of his imminent death was how he could still see Sherlock in his closed eyes. The boy just wouldn't leave him alone.  _Wouldn't let him die in peace._

_That or his brother refused to leave him alone too._

It made him smile a little and gasp a little too, his eyes becoming tearful at the effort.

_Sorry, brothermine… it seems… a goodbye now._

* * *

It was already nightfall when Sherlock, John and Lestrade burst into the not so empty cemetery of Brompton in Earl's Court which had always been popular to locals and tourists alike as it was one of the Magnificent Seven Cemeteries. Its ambiance had always mesmerized people with its historic burial ground that was singing of eternal rest.

All of which was ignored by Sherlock who strode away from the people and looked left and right, before deciding to go behind the crumbling chapel and crossing its grasses in search of his brother somewhere isolated with John behind him. They left Lestrade who had seen a couple of Park Police Service monitoring the area and headed for them. John saw them talking, before hurrying after Sherlock who was already ducking behind the gravestones.

"You think they're still here?" John used the torch lent by the Detective Inspector while his best friend touched the earth for any sign of disturbance, "You think it's really here? You think they might've…?"

"The other roads taken by the two black cars all headed for directions of cities and states. This is the only road passing a burial ground and they've been digging. I doubt I'm in the wrong place. As for whether he's still alive…"

Silence filled them as they went from grave to grave, going deeper and further from the noise of the tourists.

"We need to find him quick, don't we?" John suddenly realized as he checked his watch. "It's been an hour since the incident… Mycroft could dead by now."

"This is hurrying but…" Sherlock's voice failed him next and John excused himself as he knelt down the earth. But it was no point as the ground was dry so he stood up and blinked at his friend who was looking anywhere but him.

"Sherlock—" he began quietly but was interrupted when Lestrade ran up behind him breathlessly, "I've confirmed it. The men assigned here saw a group of five men carrying a wooden coffin and headed South from here. They thought it was part of the five-pm procession but didn't saw the men join the others. They were seen leaving the grounds not some fifteen minutes ago which means—"

"They've already buried him." John's eyes locked with Sherlock and then they were both running with torches on, Lestrade, who had borrowed a spade, right behind them, towards the South. The moonlight finally shining a moment next.

The next events were in a hurl as the three all stopped at the Southern part of the cemetery only to find more gravestones in the dark it was quite impossible to identify which was freshly dug and not. By this time John could feel his hear thumping loudly in his chest, the stress of racing with time making all the adrenaline in his body rush in his vein that he was jumping from one grave to another, reading names and watching out for nameless gravestones. Once or twice he heard Sherlock shout damnation into the air and Lestrade incessantly going from one gravestones to another too—

Time was running but they still couldn't find it. Checking Sherlock from the corner of his eyes and seeing him hurl after a grave to another, John was washed with terror as their search become more futile and futile as time went by; he hoped it wasn't too late but he just couldn't make himself believe it— _Mycroft could be long gone when they find him and he had no idea how to calm that already brewing storm behind him._

Sherlock was still calm but his excessive action showed otherwise. One minute he was crouching on the soil, the next he was jumping to another line with his black coat making him look like the very omen of death—John wished his clock watch would stop ticking—even opted to throw it away when Sherlock's cry alerted him—making him turn around to find the man kneeling and clawing the soil right under the ominous oak tree with a demented expression on his normally straight face—in an instant both John and Lestrade were beside him, digging and cursing, and breaking mother earth apart. The gravestone above the soil with the epithet ' _LV'_  already forgotten on the ground.

They dug like no human ever dug before, with raw power and brute strength, unmindful of the soil getting under their nails, their faces and clothes, not stopping till they were heaving out a wooden box above all the soil, thrust the lid and carried out a limp body of a man in a three-piece suit John had no problem identifying.

 _"Oh, jesus…"_ he muttered in an underwhelming sorrow seeing Mycroft's lifeless body be laid on the ground—

Sherlock was upon his brother in an instant but the way he was pulling on his older brother's necktie with his steady yet violent hands was enough for John to shove him aside and do a hands-only- CPR—by counting a hundred chest presses a minute—while Lestrade waved his hand to his already waiting medical team—

Sherlock hovered behind the doctor in a suspended reaction, his face as pale as that of his brother, his eyes clouded that not even a gun point could make him move from his spot.

John put his right ear on Mycroft's chest and still found no beat. He did another set of chest presses while muttering under his breath, "You're bloody not gonna die on me, Mycroft!"

He stopped this time to check for a heartbeat again, feeling the ground shake as the running feet of medical staff came, followed by the ambulance—but it all seemed too far away as Mycroft did not show any sign of life— and the doctor's body ran cold as he realized what was ahead of them and did more presses. Lestrade, it seemed, was also too struck to even let the medical team get a hold of the body. John's hand fell on Mycroft's wrist.

_What were they without the British Government Head?_

"Mycroft… wake up…" Sherlock's voice was the worst part of it all for it was dead, unfeeling and apparently shaking in silent rage till the medical team flooded them and put the body on the stretcher—and all John ever saw was Sherlock's running back, clutching on Mycroft's limp right hand,  _refusing to let go._

That right hand which John was sure just a second ago— _with a slight pulse._

* * *

**-ToBeContinued-**

* * *

**_A/N:_ ** _You guys are just like me... seeing them in this situation gives you an overwhelming feeling of..._

_brotherly love! Spread it more! So an extra epilogue next time! And SOON!_

_A very Mycroft and Sherlock scene I tell yah! I hope O.O_

**Thanks for reading! ^_^**

**~W.G~**


	3. Chapter 3

***The Sepulchre** *****

_**by: WhiteGloves** _

_Mycroft needs to be reminded of things... he needs to be reminded of ;o_

_especially during rainy days -.- Go Sherlock and John!_

_**Thanks for reading :)** _

* * *

**Part 3**

"Where'd you find that?" John asked Sherlock when he turned from the tall window of Mycroft's house and found his best friend sitting on one of the long chairs with his legs crossed and resting on the table, hands fiddling on an antique violin he has never seen before. They were inside Mycroft's house, in the living room with stacks of bookshelves and portraits and had been there waiting for twenty minutes straight from the hospital.

"Around." Sherlock didn't have to look up as he continued pulling the strings of the violin, indicating how familiar he was of the place for John never remembered spotting it. Then again, this was Sherlock's brother's house.  _Of course, he'd know._  Which was all beside the point.

"Why are we here?" the doctor had lost interest in the view of the window now, which was all dark for it was the middle of the night when all others are asleep, here they were much awake. "Why are we brought here? Are they going to give you the deed for everything your brother owned?"

Sherlock smiled in his way and eyed his friend calmly. "You know he's alive. You assured me in the hospital hall."

"I  _said there was a pulse._  How could I know what else happened when we're dragged all the way here instead of staying with him in the hospital?" At a dire moment too.

Sherlock merely tuned the strings.

"You know he isn't there anymore. It's been two hours, John, what do you expect him to do? Lie in the hospital bed and wait for visitors to come?" Sherlock chuckled when John didn't answer. "Even if they did it'll end in ten seconds counting all his associates. Not that he'd ever let anyone catch him in bedsheets. No, it's understandable he's already home. Be patient, doctor. He'll be down in a minute."

John gaped at the detective with a start. He was still in awe at how they were invited to go in the older Holmes' house when the last he remembered, Mycroft was rushed in the ER after suffering from asphyxia when buried and left to die in Brompton Cemetery not two hours ago. He had expected other doctors to come out of the ER telling them of their diagnosis, how there could be severe damage to the brain or liver, or that it may result in hypoxemia which was an awful thing to have. For a minute there, John was even afraid for Mycroft. Annoying prick the he is, it cannot be denied that Mycroft was as much of a Sherlock— _different and the only one in the world._ And smart.  _Plenty smart_ to be able to run the British Government in his hand and if he was damaged in anyway, the doctor was sure not only will Britain fall, but a certain someone was going to rampage in the city.

That certain someone now fiddling on his found violin without a care in the world was the utmost proof why John was now calm. Even Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be able to feign ignorance if his only brother had died. After Sherrinford and everything. Still, he didn't tell Sherlock about the possible damages to his brother because he didn't have to. He was sure the consulting detective was aware of 101 ways of killing someone and getting buried alive was one of them, being on his  _to do list_  and much aware of its results. How else was he to connect his brother's abduction to his burying if it weren't for his mental exercise of always killing those around him?

Mycroft was just save by one of those knowledge and only Sherlock Holmes could have done it. But the question remains to be answered—

"It's only been two hours." John muttered with levelled eyes at Sherlock.

"So?"

"You're telling me… your brother who was just found two hours ago, buried ten feet down the soil, without a beating heart, is going to meet us now on his feet and talking?"

Sherlock finally met his gaze, blank and wondering. "So?"

John's medical instinct kicked in— "He's not supposed to! He was buried, he nearly died—"

"Yet here we are." Mycroft supplied, coming in from the doorway where John whirled around to see him come in his complete dark suit and blue tie and walking as if he just came from the theme park with his expression straight that turned sour upon seeing his brother on the chair. He stopped at the heart of the room with a reprimanding look you least expect from a man who just rose up from his grave, but then this was Mycroft talking to his younger brother.

"Sherlock, do keep your feet planted on the ground. You don't know how much that antique table costs, it'll take you a lifetime to pay it off and then what would you do? And no, you may still  _not_  keep this Stradivarius owned by Napoleon. My deed specifically said  _at my death_  which you so prevented so…"

Sherlock scrunched up his mouth as he put his feet on the floor but remained holding the violin.

"You're certainly lively." He observed.

"Better that than lay stiff inside a box, you couldn't imagine..." He paused and then surveyed his visitors quietly, before taking in a deep sigh and slipping his hands inside the pockets of his pants, his lips thinning.

John had a full view of Mycroft now and he could see every line gracing the older Holmes' normally blank face as he tried to make up his mind, and also becoming heavily aware of the dark linings under his eyes and the fresh cuts on his lips. John wavered and stared dumbly at Mycroft. Yes, John could imagine the terror that all you could do was to bite your lips because your body couldn't move, he's seen much in his time in Afghanistan for soldiers paralyzed in the middle of the battlefield. But for Mycroft who was not trained in such a way and in the very safety of his own country, a great deal of help and rest must be given. Yet here Mycroft was, in the flesh with silver eyes mighty sharp for a person who had just experienced something horrendous—the soldier in John couldn't help but respect him. He did so by standing erect, face front and showing no more sign of wanting to throw a patient in the bed. He owed Mycroft that and said nothing of the subject anymore.

Then he realized, it was what Sherlock was doing since the beginning.

"I suppose," Mycroft came again, when neither his brother nor the doctor interrupted him, "a call for gratitude is in order?"

"Don't bother." Sherlock dismissed him with the same sharp eyes and sharp tongue aimed at his senior, "You know perfectly well we're not here for trivial salutations—now then spill. You already know who's behind this attack, don't you?"

John looked taken a back at Sherlock, and then to Mycroft with mouth hanging open.

"Yes, that." Mycroft replied offhandedly with a slight glance at the doctor, "You don't need to bother really, I'm sure I can get justice with my own hands—and believe me whoever he is will wish he's never been born  _at all._ "

 _"Who was it?"_  Sherlock interjected each word darkly, his voice getting harder each word, his features threatening and John was sure he's never seen Sherlock look like a wolf ready to pounce if denied an answer. Such was his aura and the doctor couldn't blame him. Sherlock was, and will ever be one who does not easily forgive when matters like this arises.

Mycroft gave his brother a shrewd look and then shook his head.

"No, Sherlock. The person involved must not be harmed—"

"Why not? I'm just going to give him a dose of his own medicine—" Sherlock said with much relish, "Probably just a day or two inside his coffin— with an air supply— that way he can be there for an entire week."

"And all the while, you serenading him to sleep?" Mycroft added testily. "No, brother, there are more important matters to discuss with the said person and I cannot leave him to you without securing the stableness of his state of mind. It's a bigger picture, and you cannot interfere, do you understand?"

Silence fell, leaving John staring from one brother to another again. Mycroft sounded serious and no trace could be found on his cold eyes that it was just two hours ago when he was at death's door. He was still the same older Holmes wielding his power and exercising it at his lone brother who also happened to be his rescuer. But saving each other's lives—it didn't seem a strange thing to them now that John thought of it, the same as it was not strange between him and Sherlock at all. When validation of gratitude was unnecessary and silent fury heading to revenge is brewing, one should know full well not to mess with this family.

For a second, Sherlock looked like he wanted to say more the way how his mouth twitched and his ears gone red, but the storm passed silently, John owing it to the fact that Sherlock probably does not want to aggravate his already exhausted brother, when the next thing, Sherlock stood up and stopped in front of his brother's face, almost nose to nose.

"Still won't allow the younger brother to clean the mess, eh?"

"Make it worst, you mean?"

"Fine. I didn't have anything to do anyway so I'll do my own hunting. And believe me,  _brother dear,_  you better get to him first or you'll find him wishing his ancestors were never born."

"Poor guy." John said abruptly that made the Holmes brothers look on his way and he gave them a cheeky smile.

"Sherlock—" Mycroft began again when he felt something was pushed on his middle. Looking down, he saw Sherlock handing him the Stradivarius, which he slowly took with both his hands which were inside his pockets. That's when John noticed Mycroft's hands— _cut in all sides of his pale fingers, reddening the slim limbs, two to three fingers wrapped in bandage that probably were missing a few nails and bandages across his palms—_  that John couldn't help staring at. Mycroft's hands had always been neat and soft to him, barely even the makings of a man—to see them like this now, John was beside himself. A sudden revulsion gripped the doctor that all he wanted to know now, like Sherlock, was the identity of the man behind the older Holmes' abduction.

Sherlock seemed well aware of this as he let go of the violin to Mycroft, his eyes uncharacteristically  _dead._  Which was never a good thing.

"Or maybe I don't give back that guy to you at all." He whispered to a voice barely audible to John.

Mycroft smiled upon receiving the antique and held it with his left hand. "And how do you propose to find him if I do not cooperate?"

"Same way I always do.  _Clues."_  Sherlock pulled his eyes away from his brother's hands and looked up at him, "In any case, you're in your house, you got a bed. You probably want to use it too."

He walked pass his brother without another word, John following suit.

"Doctor Watson." came Mycroft's dried tone that got John stopping just outside the door where Sherlock had already disappeared. He turned in time to see Mycroft place the Stradivarius down the table, his back still on the doctor as he silently spoke, "Don't let him out of your sight." He half turned sideways.  _"Please."_

John wanted to point out that it was Mycroft who needed the  _not letting out of sight_  but he refrained from saying so, so he nodded. "Just rest, will you, Mycroft? I got him."

 _And he's got you._  He wanted to add as he followed Sherlock in to the hallway where his back was just disappearing. He caught up with the detective hallway down the stairs, calling out to him but Sherlock wouldn't stop till they were both at the landing.

"You think it's okay to leave him like that?" he asked when they were both walking side by side, Sherlock striding briskly. "He's not well and you bloody well know that—why isn't there any nurse or butlers around?"

"Mycroft prefers privacy. He's not one to put himself in the hands of strangers at his weakest."

"So why don't you stay around then?"

"I've got my hands full." The air around Sherlock changed drastically to menacing that John was sure if he didn't come along, whoever would be at the end of the line of Mycroft's predicament wouldn't see the daylight next; the surprising thing was he didn't feel any pity for the poor guy at all. But there would be no murdering about no matter how it sounded as a good idea at this time.

"Isn't— isn't there anyone who can stay with him?" John exclaimed desperately and with such concern, his mind remembering Mycroft's hands. Contrast to what he secretly thought while they were digging the coffin up, he thought Mycroft was the type to accept his death silently. To give up when he understood it was the end,  _to let go_ because it was like him to do so. He was never sentimental of clinging to life, it was how he made everyone believe he was made of. To realize the man had  _struggled to the end, had tried to claw his way out of his quandary, to not give up easily—_ John couldn't help feeling for him. So to leave Mycroft in his own devices after such a terrifying experience was wrong— _all wrong— and yet—_

"There's no one there." Sherlock admitted silently as they walked the lit pathway outside the garden towards the waiting car. "I don't think anyone's… unlucky enough."

"Your parents?"

"He'll have me arrested if they come."

"Why?"

"Mycroft does not and will not show weakness to our parents. He'd rather chew himself alive."

"But we can't leave him—" John fell quiet when Sherlock rounded on him with silent eyes.

"Why not?"

"Because he's a patient—!"

"It'll do him more damage to have someone around." The younger Holmes said quietly and meaningfully as they both look at the dark house at the end of the pathway. "Leave him… there's only so much agony we can give him in a day."

With that, Sherlock slid inside the open car, leaving John still staring at the lone house, his mind on to that lone owner going through so much at the moment, reminding him of himself when he had just come back from Afghanistan and struggling with the aftermath of his post-traumatic stress disorder.

He had been alone then. So alone.

"John." Sherlock called, reminding him of his presence and the doctor obligingly went after him in the car with the door closing shut after him. The car glided away, leaving the doctor feeling a thorn was on his chest and it made him shake his head.

"He's not alright." He said to Sherlock once they were on the road. "He shouldn't be alone."

"You are quick to think that Mycroft would be better if people were to be around." Sherlock told him quite dismissively, hands on his phone, "Not thinking that solitude has its fine features and works wonders to some. Give him time."

John sucked some air. How come that never worked with him?

"He needs vacation—" he then said.

"He needs distraction." Sherlock countered, now typing on his mobile as quick as lightning, "Nothing ever beats my kind of distraction, why do you think we're here? It'll keep Mycroft preoccupied for a while."

"I thought we're here to avenge him?"

"My brother can retaliate for himself and believe me what he has in mind is nothing compared to mine."

"I doubt it."

 _"We're the distractions, John._  If we're lucky and identified him that's where the real fun begins."

John paused as this sunk in. "You know how to find the guy?"

"I know the people who could find the guy. Remember the gravestone where I found my brother? The clue itself was engraved on it, two letters  _LV."_

"What  _LV?_ " John's mind raced, "Louis Vuitton? Liverpool? Las Vegas?"

"No, it's a log vapor that smells a lot like poo!" Sherlock snapped impatiently, "It's written on gravestones, of course its  _numbers! What else could it be?"_

The doctor blinked, "Numbers? You mean Roman Numbers? L for fifty and V for five?"

 _"55."_  The detective's eyes gleamed. "That's where we are starting. Anything connected to these numbers, I'll find out. For now, I need everyone and everything my brother did and meet today, and then I'll narrow my web. My contact tells me brother Mycroft's had three official visits with three different people this morning before getting involved with the White's case. I doubt it was any of the Whites as he had just called them, no time for any literal  _plotting._ So it's those three this morning and if Mycroft hasn't lost his touch and has his Secret Service on the move, then the quicker we need to be on our way. And whoever will raise these numbers will have to answer  _to me."_

"55…" John muttered after a while, then snapped too—  _"That's like looking in a haystack!"_

* * *

_**Epilogue** _

Deafening silence was his only true companion.

No wait, another sound.

Just his breathing.

No, even that couldn't be heard.

It had been silent for a long time then, ever since his brother went out. That was a couple of hours ago too. He didn't need to check his time watch to know it must've been past midnight. Everything was just silent.

Then midnight crawled into dawn and still he wasn't sleepy. Despite his fatigue, despite his coldness, despite the protest of his pained body, he didn't feel like sleeping, no thank you.

What brought on such mentality, he didn't need to ponder over for the slight closing of his eyes would remind him of the terrible confinement that had taken hold of his every dark moment. The minute he closes his eyes he knew he was just  _there_  again—what with his skin crawling as if no space was ever enough, his breathing rapid like air was never abundant and the smell—the terrible smell of earth and elk wood that never left him no matter how many baths he took. The smell had seeped into his skin and he was still inside his coffin.

It was easy to tell his mind that everything was over, that he was finally out, that he had survived—but another to assure himself that he was  _safe._  Not in a long time, he won't be. Not from his mind that nearly died with him if not a second too late. His brain that had imagined all horrors that would happen to his decaying body, left with nobody to find him—that won't be easily forgotten. The horror of being lost and never found. He imagined Sherlock's young playmate, Viktor, and Mycroft's already tormented heart cried out and broke for him. And Viktor was only a child. What agony did the child go to because of his sister?  _Lost and forgotten._

If it was to be his fate then so be it—  _what goes around, comes around._ He felt his eyes sting with tears and let it for it was a good way to keep it open. His eyes watered and he made no attempt to urge it out of his eyes nor to stop it. He just sat there, in the middle of the room with his chair facing the fireside that was still burning, hands on his side, eyes half opened, glistening, as it reflected the flames, listening to the fire cracking and the silence of the room. His shoulders felt heavy as his lids felt like they were made from metals but sleep was not an option. He refrained from taking any medications and nobody would be able to convince him to do so, less it was his mother.

Silence was his salvation as it was his torture but nobody ever had to know. He was an adult for christ sake and shame on him if he could not handle a trifle consequence of his job. He wouldn't be the British Government if he couldn't take a simple assault such as this when he knew full well his job description.

What was the difference of getting buried alive and getting a gun pointed on his head by his younger brother?

But as time ticked, Mycroft found it hard to concentrate on the strengths of his mind but the fragility of his soul. If he could only take a wink and sleep on it, he was sure he'll have the strength to balance out his overly active imaginings— but alas dawn was about to crack and his mind remained shattered yet he didn't have the power to rest.

For rest itself was his enemy.

He let silence take him, and silence did and he would have been drowning in its torment if not for the three melody that escaped his mobile phone, snapping him out of torpor and making him painfully aware of his surroundings. He reached a weak hand on to his gadget and took time trying to push the answer button. He didn't even know whose name was flashing on the screen when he answered.

_"Hello, Mycroft? It's John? Are you awake?"_

Mycroft registered John's name but dropped the phone down to his stomach clumsily, his hand unable to carry its weight. The doctor didn't seem to mind for he was still talking on the other side. It was only then that Mycroft recognized sounds of ambulance behind him. It made him frown a little.  _Something troublesome about his younger brother, perhaps?_

_"Well, you wouldn't believe it—actually I think you would—but uh, Sherlock's found your guy. He was already brought in by your Secret Service. Sherlock contacted your secretary and well—it's the bank manager. We got him in his office and he put up quite a struggle but Sherlock's got him… well, it was a bit bloody but under control, I was there. Sherlock just doesn't know his strength some times but he's fine. The bank manager too, quite. But it's not him that brought the ambulance if you can hear them. We had the banker spill the names and whereabouts of the people he contacted to take you and right now they are being dug here in Brompton. Sherlock insisted they be buried the same way you were, he couldn't be stopped—I'm sorry. He didn't kill them, I saw to that, I already called Greg and he's here sorting things out. I don't think those men will ever feel the same too after Sherlock's done with them. I uh, gave them a punch or two for you—anyways, it's all noisy over here, sorry to distract you—I hope you were distracted though. And Sherlock's long gone, he left some twenty minutes ago—is he there already—?"_

A hand reached out and took the mobile from Mycroft's middle and answered it. Recognizing the solemn voice of his younger brother, the British Government Head only had to look over the flames again before seeing Sherlock drop the phone on the nearest table.

"How did you know?" the older Holmes whispered, his throat dry and painful, not looking up, his hands feeling clammy.

"The bank manager?" Sherlock said from behind him and there he stayed out of view, "LV. It was written on your gravestone, if you've been paying attention."

"I was half dead then."

"Almost dead. I happen to know the places you've visited yesterday morning and stopped by to investigate. Curious, it got me thinking why a bank manager's table would be with a  _Don Quixote_  book where as a politician has the Bible. Looking at the obvious, as you probably had realized, the bank manager was using the book as his key code for the counterfeits he's been doing with this organization, which I'm sure was also not unknown to you. You'd also be glad to know that I am attentive to the said book's every detail having read it as a child and found chapter  _LV_ truly riveting. The chapter where something befell the faithful Sancho Panza on his way. He fell into an abyss and found himself buried into the pit of darkness with nothing save himself and his fear of dying. Sounds very familiar? When I confronted the banker, his quick hand on his gun was enough evidence, don't you think?"

"He was a fool." Mycroft managed to croak, easing himself on the chair.

"I've been busy with other things but I think John already told you the rest. No, you on the other hand," Sherlock rounded in front of him till his shadow was blocking the fireside, his eyes illuminated by the side lamp beside Mycroft, "seems to be the opposite. And here I was thinking you had the Secret Service moving after your prime suspect when in fact  _you didn't do a thing."_

Mycroft had no will to counter him. Yes, he didn't contact anyone prior to getting back in his house despite the continuous ringing of his business mobile which he had thrown on his bed and left there for hours now. His personal mobile was necessary in case something was to happen to his brother. Something did happen where his brother was involved but then… Mycroft heaved a deep sigh.

"That was quite a scare." Sherlock said all of a sudden that got the older Holmes blinking once as he understood what his brother meant.  _Buried alive._

In retrospection, and perhaps this was his own and only brother, or perhaps he was too tired to mask it all, Mycroft nodded his agreement. "Yes… yes, it truly was horrifying."

"You got scared?" Sherlock threw at him with narrowed eyes but Mycroft was less impressed by his meaning. Sherlock smiled once he knew his older brother understood and straightened from where he was standing. "Why don't you take a rest? You look terrible in the morning, has anyone ever told you that?"

"You always do. In any case, I can't sleep." Mycroft sighed tiredly again, "Not yet. The very notion makes me…  _sick."_

"Mmm. How are the hands? They're not something but they have their uses."

Mycroft raised his frail limbs a centimeter from his body before dropping them down again. Sherlock didn't seem to like it any better than he first inspected it that he looked away. Mycroft closed his fists and instead said, "It's almost sunrise. You can give my regards to Doctor Watson. I heard he was instrumental in bringing me back to life."

"He's the doctor, that's he's job." Sherlock looked around and then disappeared from view, his voice traveling in the air, "Can't be much useful if he can't do his job now, can he?"

"Thank him for me."

"You really must be very tired if you can consider John like that. You can tell him that when you're sober, for now let's have you fixed, brother. The doctor strictly advises that you get some decent sleep."

"I can't." Mycroft shut his eyes and felt turbulence in his stomach. "You have no idea… give me time…"

"By that time, you'd be a walking corpse. Have you seen yourself lately?" His voice suddenly disappeared after that.

Minutes passed and Mycroft nearly forgot his brother was around when his heavy footsteps came back, and the next thing a soft blanket was draped all over his body reaching up to his middle—thrown none other than by the younger Holmes. The next thing, Mycroft heard a single note coming from his antique Stradivarius and realized Sherlock was playing behind him.

"Sherlock?"

"Shh… this sepulchral atmosphere out of your house now, we need to get rid of it?" his brother's voice came, pausing to adjust the strings and what came next was a lull sound so peaceful, so tranquil it was sending chills all over Mycroft's body. Sherlock was playing a tune Mycroft has heard from before, but not the one he plays in Sherrinford. It was a steady, melodious tune that can pull strings on the soul, and Mycroft was much affected. Perhaps it was because his wall had been down for some hours now, but the tune was mending him for some reason. It was sad, and calming and soothing, yet  _very much Sherlock_  in a way.

_Classical. Chopin Nocturne… 55._

But before Mycroft knew it he was shaking so. It happened so fast and out of his control that Sherlock had no choice but to stop and kneel beside his brother who burst into silent tears remembering his confinement, his terrible fear and the idea of almost giving up if not for a child's image—Sherlock's image—and Sherlock understood as he held his tired brother, as he did when John needed it, and he became much stronger, much reliable now to that person that was ever his sole benefactor. To the person who needed his strength now more than ever.

And the violin played once again.

Mycroft didn't say another word as he listened closely, the deafening silence finally subsiding into the mellow tune, giving no space for despair but only a vigorous and flooding sense of hope that  _he was not alone._ The silence was being chased away and what came was a sound that was easing his breathing and making his eyelids fall till it had close down. He didn't feel any coffin nor smelled any wooden elk or soil then. The melody was carrying him to some other place even he didn't not know and he wasn't along towards it.

Within minutes Mycroft has fallen asleep, and still Sherlock continued playing.

John stepped into the room after ten minutes, his footsteps light as he was aware of what was happening. He slowly came in the room, looked over to the sleeping Mycroft and then exchanged looks with Sherlock who nodded at him once, violin still on the roll. The doctor nodded too and put his Gladstone bag on the table quietly then began checking his patient's wounded hands and change its dressings.

The patient was so deep in his slumber that he didn't notice the world around him. In his dream, Sherlock was playing with a violin inside Buckingham Palace. Why it had to be Buckingham palace he couldn't be sure. But it was calming, soothing. And safe.

It felt safe.

 _"We're staying long, aren't we?"_  came John Watson's familiar voice.

 _"Until he gets sick of us and throw us out."_  Replied Sherlock's ever playful voice.

_"That's gonna be sooner."_

_You bet it is._ Mycroft sighed as he pushed the memories of this day to the very last storage of his brain, not ever wanting to dig it up. Including the one with Sherlock, but maybe he'll keep that one for the rainy days. In case it was an absolute must to remember that the child he had used to protect not so long ago was now the person providing him the same assurance unfailingly.

But for now,  _let him rest in peace._

As long as it was far away from the Sepulchre he sure would never miss.

* * *

**-The End-**

* * *

**_A/N: am Forever will be there for the Holmes brothers!_ **

_Thank you. Hopefully new ideas would spring this spring._

Thank you very much for reading! :D :D :D

**~W.G~**


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